Lance Would Always Remember
by LadyPaige
Summary: How could he forget?


**I felt like being depressing apparently. **

* * *

Lance would always remember that smile, that expression that he wanted to forget.

Oliver Queen had come back from the Island a stone wall; no cracks, no fear in his eyes, no emotion at all. His eyes were neither sparkling with happiness to be back home, nor glinting with sadness from the past.

He would stiffen at the smallest of unexpected noises which in a large, old and creaking manor was not uncommon but there was no hint of fear. Just preparedness.

He needed to shut doors. Open doors always caught his attention. Like the sound of it opening was his only line of warning to an attack. That was probably how he saw it.

For all his ticks, he was still a stone wall. No emotion except that, which was put on, planned. Being caught in a lie, being seen freezing at a sound, always frustrated him.

When the police raided under the Verdant they found nothing but supplies. Oliver's home showed nothing too. It was not until the earthquake that Lance saw the shoelaces.

Part of the club walls had taken a hit and cracked open some dry wall wherein sat a plastic zip bag with a big bunch of shoelaces inside. All of them were black, some thick, some wider or thinner. The plastic seemed to have been removed from what he could tell. The ruffled ends were then folded and the rest of the lace neatly wrapped around them, the fluffed ends just sticking out. There were different sizes so some of the bundles of lace were smaller than others but the ends had to stick out.

Why? Lance did not know but he did not take the bag.

Oliver disappeared for five months and Lance had since chalked up the laces to some sort of weird habit. When he went to visit Thea, he found packets of black laces in her brother's drawer. He vaguely remembered that Oliver did have lots of laces in this drawer before when they searched his room. The drawer above housed a few worn leather belts, a grey and white scarf and a grey shirt which seemed too big for the blond. Lance had thought that maybe Oliver had just shoved things there because he could not be bothered to put any of it away but it was right next to his bed and neatly folded.

When Oliver went, it all went with him, minus the new, still in packets, shoelaces.

Oliver had returned and the vigilante continued. Lance never let himself believe it was Oliver after all the Arrow had done. His Sara was back. He no longer needed to hate the blond.

Years passed. Ten in fact.

Oliver became a successful business man. He never married, nor did he ever have kids. Once a year on the same date, Oliver would disappear for a few days.

Lance asked Sara one morning why Oliver never dated. She frowned and walked away. Days later she told him that Oliver had once fallen in love and that the person had died. The look in her eyes said that there was more to that story.

One day a criminology student taking a tour at the police station with his class had noticed something about all the people the Arrow had killed from the pictures of the bodies, something no one before had ever noticed let alone wondered.

"They all have the same shoelaces."

He had been right.

Matching the shoes to their brand, the officers found that the laces they came with did not match the ones they ended with. For every person the Arrow killed, he would go back and switch their laces.

Why?

Lance slipped into Oliver's house while he was out. A huge luxury four bedroom house with a back garden more akin to a forest and two fireplaces; one in the living room and one in the master bedroom. Searching every room with careful hands, he did not stop till he found what he was looking for. Which turned out to be a blanket.

It lay on Oliver's bed along with the same leather belts, scarf and shirt Lance had seen all those years ago, lying on one side of the bed and in order as if a person should be wearing them. Sitting below all that was the blanket, folded into a rectangle.

Lance could clearly see that it was as large, if not larger than the white duvet on the bed. The black blanket was full of gaps like knit work. It had been hand made with one long piece of material made into a simple crossing pattern to hold it together. Upon closer inspection he found that the fabric changed thickness, material and shades of black in some areas. Like lots of bits of long pieces of material had been tied together. Some parts even flaked black paint as if they had been dyed to change their colour.

It was made of shoelaces. Hundreds of pairs of shoelaces.

He left, feeling deeply disturbed by what he had seen. He made his way to the front door.

There on the sofa was Oliver Queen.

"Detective," Oliver greeted.

Ollie's head fell forward and nothing was said for the longest time. Then, as Lance was about to speak up, the younger man's shoulders started to shake.

The movement grew and grew till Oliver started to chuckle with a dark smile pulling at his lips, exposing bright white teeth.

Oliver laughed loudly, bright blue eyes with tints of green looking into Lance's. Eyes full of madness.

The laugher was hysterical and uncontrollable like Oliver had held it in for years and at just this moment had lost it. Completely and utterly lost it.

Then he started to quiet down, his laughter got slower and lower until it was merely a chuckle again. Then he stopped, although still smiling.

"A friend once told me the best way to get rid of fear of death, those who are trying to kill you, is to make their worth barely anything but just enough to dull you to their existence," Oliver's smile grew. "He made me into what I am... He made me... He made me..."

Lance blinked. Oliver was insane.

"He made me... He made me... He made me..."

Lance stepped around the man and walked out the door.

Looking back, Quentin wondered if his knowledge had been Oliver's braking point or if his plan had been in motion long before Lance had ever found the blanket.

Lance would always remember that smile.

Lance would always remember the smell of smoke as Oliver's house burned down. Gasoline. Poured into every room. The blanket had been washed in it, soaking it and Oliver had got in bed and covered himself with it. The house had gone up not by a lighter or matches but by the spark of a gunshot when Oliver shot himself in the head.

Lance would always remember Oliver's last wish, sent to the police station in the mail. To be buried with a set of words on his grave stone.

_If reincarnation is a thing, I will spend my next life time and every life after searching for you. _


End file.
